laughed.
“Okay, PFC Federov.” Woodham sighed and they shook hands. “I wish I had eight daughters. I wish I had so many daughters I’d have difficulty remembering their names. I wouldn’t mind losing a couple along the way then.” He poured them both fresh drinks.
They had a week’s honeymoon in Atlanta, the usual, frail wartime barricade against violence and fear of what lay ahead in the days to come. The ceremony in the office of a justice of the peace had been a hasty one. Three other couples were waiting to be married. Only Peggy’s father and mother and Benjamin’s platoon lieutenant and another soldier from Benjamin’s squad, a huge boy from Kentucky who shared the pup tent with Benjamin on maneuvers, were present. Benjamin’s father and mother hadn’t been able to come down from New York because they couldn’t afford the trip, and Louis was at an airfield in Texas.
Benjamin had sent Peggy’s photograph to his parents, and his mother had written that she was beautiful and God bless both you children.
Woodham loaned Benjamin his car and they drove to Atlanta over the baking roads of summertime Georgia, carefully not going more than thirty-five miles an hour because of wartime fuel restrictions. It was not a day on which Benjamin wanted to be stopped by a traffic cop.
They closed the yellow fake-oak door of the meager hotel room, which was all they could find for the seven days, and Federov locked it behind them, hearing the steps of the bellboy who had carried up their bags retreating down the creaking corridor. They were alone in the room with the window closed and the blinds drawn against the heat of the Southern sunlight. Benjamin leaned against the door and watched his wife unpack, admiring her small, neat movements as she hung up her two extra dresses and put her things into the bottom drawers of the bureau. Neither of them said a word. There was only the silken sound of Peggy’s passage across the room. When she had put all her things away, Peggy turned to him. “Give me your watch,” she said, coming over to him and holding out her hand.
“It’s twenty minutes past five,” Benjamin said, glancing down at his wrist.
“I don’t want to know the time,” she said. “Give me the watch.”
Benjamin gave her the watch. She put it in her bag, then locked the bag and put the key away in the drawer, under her two nightgowns. “I don’t want to know the time,” Peggy said, “for seven days.”
They went out at odd hours, when they were hungry or wanted to swim in a pool or go to a movie, but for seven days the center of the world was a darkened hotel room with a yellow almost-oak door and one window. For seven days they forgot the tides of bleached summer uniforms that oceaned around them, forgot the snarls of command, the sound of the waiting guns. For a week life was two bodies, greedy and grateful at the same time. Then Peggy unlocked her bag to pack it for the trip home and she gave him back his watch.
Two weeks later, Federov’s division was moved North. Peggy did not follow him. For one thing they didn’t have the money for the fares and rented rooms that it would have cost and they knew that it was only a matter of a few weeks before the division would move again, probably for overseas, and they decided that one leave-taking was all they could bear during that war.
Two months after his wedding day, Federov’s division was sent to England. He and Peggy didn’t see each other again for three years. They wrote constantly, of course, but by the time Federov met Leah in Paris, Peggy had become a remote, strange ghost lost somewhere behind a small volume of V-mail envelopes. He had done what most soldiers do under similar circumstances and had had several affairs with the locals in Cornwall, where he was stationed for amphibious training, and with a girl from the British Ministry of Information when he had been sent up to London for a special liaison course with British
“Okay, PFC Federov.” Woodham sighed and they shook hands. “I wish I had eight daughters. I wish I had so many daughters I’d have difficulty remembering their names. I wouldn’t mind losing a couple along the way then.” He poured them both fresh drinks.
They had a week’s honeymoon in Atlanta, the usual, frail wartime barricade against violence and fear of what lay ahead in the days to come. The ceremony in the office of a justice of the peace had been a hasty one. Three other couples were waiting to be married. Only Peggy’s father and mother and Benjamin’s platoon lieutenant and another soldier from Benjamin’s squad, a huge boy from Kentucky who shared the pup tent with Benjamin on maneuvers, were present. Benjamin’s father and mother hadn’t been able to come down from New York because they couldn’t afford the trip, and Louis was at an airfield in Texas.
Benjamin had sent Peggy’s photograph to his parents, and his mother had written that she was beautiful and God bless both you children.
Woodham loaned Benjamin his car and they drove to Atlanta over the baking roads of summertime Georgia, carefully not going more than thirty-five miles an hour because of wartime fuel restrictions. It was not a day on which Benjamin wanted to be stopped by a traffic cop.
They closed the yellow fake-oak door of the meager hotel room, which was all they could find for the seven days, and Federov locked it behind them, hearing the steps of the bellboy who had carried up their bags retreating down the creaking corridor. They were alone in the room with the window closed and the blinds drawn against the heat of the Southern sunlight. Benjamin leaned against the door and watched his wife unpack, admiring her small, neat movements as she hung up her two extra dresses and put her things into the bottom drawers of the bureau. Neither of them said a word. There was only the silken sound of Peggy’s passage across the room. When she had put all her things away, Peggy turned to him. “Give me your watch,” she said, coming over to him and holding out her hand.
“It’s twenty minutes past five,” Benjamin said, glancing down at his wrist.
“I don’t want to know the time,” she said. “Give me the watch.”
Benjamin gave her the watch. She put it in her bag, then locked the bag and put the key away in the drawer, under her two nightgowns. “I don’t want to know the time,” Peggy said, “for seven days.”
They went out at odd hours, when they were hungry or wanted to swim in a pool or go to a movie, but for seven days the center of the world was a darkened hotel room with a yellow almost-oak door and one window. For seven days they forgot the tides of bleached summer uniforms that oceaned around them, forgot the snarls of command, the sound of the waiting guns. For a week life was two bodies, greedy and grateful at the same time. Then Peggy unlocked her bag to pack it for the trip home and she gave him back his watch.
Two weeks later, Federov’s division was moved North. Peggy did not follow him. For one thing they didn’t have the money for the fares and rented rooms that it would have cost and they knew that it was only a matter of a few weeks before the division would move again, probably for overseas, and they decided that one leave-taking was all they could bear during that war.
Two months after his wedding day, Federov’s division was sent to England. He and Peggy didn’t see each other again for three years. They wrote constantly, of course, but by the time Federov met Leah in Paris, Peggy had become a remote, strange ghost lost somewhere behind a small volume of V-mail envelopes. He had done what most soldiers do under similar circumstances and had had several affairs with the locals in Cornwall, where he was stationed for amphibious training, and with a girl from the British Ministry of Information when he had been sent up to London for a special liaison course with British
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